Alias
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: In which a lesson is learned: What goes around, comes around. Inspired by the film, "The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes."


AN: This is inspired by Billy Wilder's 1970 film, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes.

_  
For all the Baker Street fangirls. You know who you are._

Windows to the Soul

By The Lady Razorsharp

_I hold it true, whate'er befall;  
I feel it, when I sorrow most;  
'Tis better to have loved and lost  
Than never to have loved at all.  
_--Tennyson, 'In Memoriam: 21', 1850

I could hear the water lapping against the boats in Yokohama Port from where I lay on the narrow stone bed in my prison cell. I had heard that sound every waking moment for the past three weeks, and it seemed as if my life ebbed away more and more with each turn of the tide.

I pulled my thin yukata tighter around my shoulders, shivering as if I lay on a block of ice. Brushing my hair away from my face, I was very glad I had no way of seeing what I looked like. Better to remember things the way they were then, all those months ago.

Once again, I slipped away into golden memories of the recent past.

_  
"This is your destination," Von Tirpitz told me, handing me a small card printed with the numbers 301. He and his confederates had dumped three buckets of water on me, dress and all, and I was shaking with cold and nervousness as I took the card in my hand. I flipped it over, and read the address written there: 221B Baker Street. My surprise must have been evident on my face, for Von Tirpitz gave a short, humorless laugh. _

"You are to play a woman who has tried to drown herself in the Thames. A 'kindly cabbie'--Otto--will pick you up. He will drive you straightaway to Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Like most of the world, I had read Dr. Watson's fascinating accounts of Holmes' exploits, and only half-believed Holmes was even real. This would be interesting, indeed. "Sh-sh-erl-l-lock H-h-olmes," I echoed through chattering teeth.

Von Tirpitz's face wore an expression somewhere between amused and annoyed. "Yes, they decided to give the job to you. See that you don't fail."

I smirked at him, trying to conjure images of Mrs. Hudson and hot tea and a coal fire dancing in the grate. "Have I ever?"

Now he truly was amused. "No. But I know you, 'Gabrielle'. Remember your true purpose is to get the secrets of that submersible, not to go romping about with this Holmes fellow." He rolled his eyes. "I don't understand the infatuation you women have with that limey fop."

The cab pulled up, and Otto swung down with a thick horse blanket in his hands. I let him wrap it around me, grateful for the rough (if somewhat smelly) warmth, and attempted to drown myself in the soggy persona of Gabrielle Valledon as we made our way to Baker Street.

There was a horrible banging reverberating in my head, one that sounded like iron against iron. Then I opened my eyes and realized that it indeed was iron against iron; someone was trying keys in the lock of my prison cell and having little luck finding the correct key. I heard a shuffle of leather soles and a smattering of Japanese curse words floating through the other side of the door.

"Matsu!" bellowed a deep voice. "Go and get the other key ring; none of these fit. And hurry up! It's nearly dawn." The words were a flurry of Japanese that I could barely follow despite my intensive training in the language, but their tone made me cringe all the same.

"_Hai!_" called Matsu, scrambling away.

It seemed as though I hadn't taken two breaths when the door swung open, revealing the two bailiffs in navy blue wool uniforms.

"_Ashu-downzu!_"

I smiled faintly to myself. How were they to know that this name they called me was my own private joke? The guard was calling my name again, but I shut my eyes against the sight of his intense face and plunged deep into my memory.

_He thought I was asleep--or so I thought _he_ thought, anyway. If I lay very still, I could hear the sound of Holmes breathing, broken only by the rustle of his tailored clothes. The tang of his shaving soap and the buttery richness of his tobacco wafted toward me on the slight breeze the door had made, and suddenly I was very aware that I was naked._

_The sheets of my borrowed bed seemed to be like sandpaper against my hypersensitive skin, but I forced myself to keep still. I heard Holmes' footfalls on the rug behind me, the quiet crush of leather against carpet my only clue as to how close he was. Two feet away, he stopped and leaned over slightly—again I heard the rustle of his clothing, the susurration of his breath--then he turned on his heel and quickly left the room, shutting the door securely behind him._

_I allowed myself the luxury of a tiny sigh. So close!_

_Well, I thought, if he would not come to me…then perhaps it was time to go to him._

_"Emile?" I called softly, then once more, a bit louder. If Holmes entered immediately, then my plans would have to change. If he did not, then there was still a chance. I waited for half a dozen heartbeats, but the house was silent._

_Before I could lose my nerve, I threw back the covers and tore open the door. I rounded the corner, stopping short in the middle of the hallway. There he stood, tall and slender, silhouetted against the bright window at the end of the hall. Between my mad dash and the sight of him, I did not have to feign breathlessness._

_This is it, I told myself. No going back now._

_"Emile?" I whispered, putting just the right quaver in my voice. I could be the damsel in distress, if that was what it took to break him._

_There was a split-second pause while he made his decision. "Yes, Gabrielle?" he replied._

_I ran to him and threw my arms around him. "Ah, Emile! Thank God I've found you at last!" I buried my face in the musty-sweetness of his velvet lapel, molding my curves to his angles and lines. "Hold me tight. It's been so long, so many nights..." He stood like an alabaster statue at first, but at the seconds ticked by, his hands found their way to my shoulder blades. His breath quickened, betraying what the motion had cost him in control._

_"Darling, I hope you won't be angry with me. Do you know what I did before I left Brussels?" I asked, drawing lazy circles on his back with my fingernails._

_"What?" he asked, his voice low and steady._

_"I bought myself an expensive negligee— pink, with marabou feathers."_

_"Did you, now?" he rumbled, the words welling from deep within his chest._

_I pulled away, leaving my eyes unfocussed, playing the part of addled amnesiac to the hilt. It was a shame; I dearly wanted to see the flash of hunger in those gray eyes before the shutters of control dropped into place behind them. I draped myself on the bed--his bed, I realized, astonished at my own capacity for cruelty. "Don't you think it's a little bit foolish for a married woman to do such a thing?" I asked, looking up at him through the veil of my eyelashes._

_He didn't have to say a word. I could almost hear his desire, like the reverberating hum after ringing a bell, but he kept his distance. Touché, Mr. Holmes…_

_I reached out my hands to him, languidly beckoning him closer. It was time for the coup de grace. "Come here," I breathed._

_He half-turned away, shadows falling over his face. "And where is the negligee?"_

_It took all my sense not to laugh. "In my luggage, of course." I made an impatient motion toward him. "Come here."_

_"And where is your luggage now?"_

_If he was the world's greatest detective, let him figure it out, I thought. "Oh, I don't know. Now, come here…please…"_

_At long, long last, he did so. His steps seemed to echo forever as he crossed the room to where I lay, one elegant hand reaching out to me…_

I felt a rough hand round my wrist, and one of the bailiffs jerked me to my feet. The shivering was back again, and I found walking to be slow going.

"Move along! Faster!" Someone barked the words in English, accentuating the words by jabbing a sharp edge in my back; a bayonet. For the first time since my capture, I realized I was going to die.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, praying the last prayer of every captured spy: _Just let it be quick. _

The walls dripped, and the other prisoners hissed at me like vipers as I passed. There was one consolation, I thought blearily, as we broke into the watery sunlight of a winter's dawn--I would never have to sleep another night in that foul place. No, today was the day of reckoning, the last day of a life marked with subterfuge.

Despite my fear, I felt my lips curve in a tiny smile. It really had been a most entertaining life.

I thought again of Holmes, of his hawk-sharp face, the dark hair falling over his high forehead, the fog-gray eyes that seemed to see into my very soul. I thought of his hands, how they coaxed heartbreaking music from his violin, and I was sure they could have coaxed music from my body as well. How I had longed to play him like a violin, to make him sigh, to watch him sleep like a child in my arms.

The wind knifed through my thin shift, and I was dimly aware of more voices, more words. I fought hard to keep Holmes' drawl in my ear to combat the torrent of Japanese accusations.

_  
"…Gabrielle," he murmured against my cheek. I felt his touch at the back of my neck, on my shoulder, on my hip. "Gabrielle…"_

My flesh began to numb with cold as hands stripped me of even the meager protection of the yukata. "…Gabrielle Ashdown, alias Gabrielle Valladon," read the officer on my right hand side, the Japanese inflection tripping oddly over the Anglo and French names. "You have been found guilty of espionage against the Emperor. Therefore, you are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad."

_  
The other Holmes—older, balding—beckoned from the doorway. "Oh, you're not going back to Germany," he informed me. His eyes, identical to those of his brother, held only cold contempt where the others' had been windows to wounded pride. "You're being exchanged for one of ours. That was Sherlock's idea." _

I turned on my heel, my hand outstretched. "I'll take that," I sniffed, reaching a hand out for my parasol. The doctor gave it to me, his kindly eyes sad--but sad for whom, I wondered? I cast one last glance up at Holmes to find pain and wonder written on his face, a slight valley between his brows.

The officer folded up the decree. "Is there anything you wish to say before sentence is carried out?"

There was nothing to say. Holmes was standing before me, somewhere out of time, and I tilted my face up to his. A single snowflake—or was it a tear?--brushed wetly against my cheek.

"_Auf wiedersehen_," I whispered, and all was darkness.

To my utter surprise, I woke up in a hospital bed. Gasping, I bolted upright only to be pushed back down by a long, thin hand. I followed the hand up to its accompanying arm, and found myself staring into those gray eyes I knew so well.

My heart gave a huge thud and crash against my ribs. "Sh--Sher--"

"My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes," said a clipped English voice, and the blurry form coalesced into a balding man seated at my right elbow. "We met last in Scotland. Sherlock Holmes is my younger brother. I believe you've made his acquaintance."

My mind whirled with questions. "What…what happened? The firing squad…"

"As far as the Japanese government knows, you have been executed. Your coffin has been taken back to Germany for burial. You must understand that it had to look very official," Mycroft explained. He poured a glass of water and placed it in my hand, regarding me critically as I sipped. "Let me be blunt, Fraulein von Hoffmanstal: Do you recall my mentioning to you the last time we met that you would be of great service to Her Majesty?"

The conversation in the Scottish inn came rippling back, and with it, a renewed vision of Sherlock Holmes looking distraught, like a little boy whose toy had suddenly broken in his hands. I pushed the image away and focused on the man before me. "Yes, Herr Holmes, I remember."

"The offer still stands." Mycroft narrowed his eyes and stared at me intently. "However, I must warn you: The slightest whiff of treason will bring you to unrecognizable ruin. Her Majesty's firing squads do not make the same mistakes as the Emperor's." The words, merely stern before, were now edged with steel. "A final warning: Make any attempt to contact my brother, and you will be captured within an hour. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, Herr Holmes." It was much more of a chance than I ever could have hoped for. _Bless you, my dear Mr. Ashdown._

"Good. By now, my brother has no doubt received my letter detailing the circumstances of your untimely death. It certainly wouldn't do for you to suddenly reappear at his doorstep."

My mind conjured up a painful picture of that snug sitting room, of the detective and the doctor with their heads bent over their porridge bowls, Holmes' long fingers sifting through the morning mail. I saw him pick out an envelope and slit it open with his knife, and I watched with bated breath as his gray eyes took in the words. His face was blank as he tossed the paper back on the table and rose from his seat, all thoughts of breakfast flown like freed canaries. The sight of him in my mind's eye, that elegant silhouette against the window again—it was almost too much to bear. I thought of Dr. Watson trying to console his friend, but then I remembered the stories—and realized I knew all too well what Holmes would do to banish the shadows.

I was grateful when Mycroft's voice dragged me from my dark musings. "If all goes according to plan, he will be well on his way to Switzerland when you arrive in London."

My curiosity got the better of me as I retrieved my dressing gown from the end of the bed. "Why is he going there?"

"To get himself killed."

The room threatened to tilt on me, like an unsteady boat in Loch Ness. "What did you say?"

"Like you, Sherlock is also of some use to Her Majesty. Unfortunately, he must be dead before that can happen." He stood and picked up his hat and gloves from the bedside table. "Collect your things and be downstairs in thirty minutes--that is, if you still want to live."

I did indeed wish to live. That was enough for the moment, and I hurried to follow Mycroft's instructions.

End--


End file.
